Did he leave the seat up one too many times? Did she come home with a new pearl necklace? When you were scanning every memory sector on your iPhone with a forensics image-and-text-retrieval app, did you stumble upon those tickets he bought to Vegas? With your boss?! (Stored in his phone as "my little Bumpkin"!) Breaking up is not the hardest thing to do when you live in the nexus of the Everglades, the Bermuda Triangle, and the Atlantic Ocean. You could invite her on a romantic airboat ride. ("Just the two of us, honey; something exciting! Why am I bringing the chainsaw? You know I've always wanted to carve ice sculptures in the swamp at 3 a.m. during a new moon!") Or double the life insurance payouts and charter a small boat to Bermuda. ("Don't fret over the hurricane, sweetie; they never hit us.") Or resist the Dexter-esque inclinations and just opt for a nice swim in the Atlantic. Wearing only a swimsuit, there's nowhere for her to hide weapons or recording devices with which to retaliate; surely there will be some hot lifeguard or half-naked eye candy to greet you on the beach when you turn your back and walk away (forever!), and for the dumpee, everyone will think those tears are just droplets of saltwater. You're a gentleman; be charitable to the bitch.